


made me forget myself

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [13]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Death Fix, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Families of Choice, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Richie Tozier, Kid Fic, M/M, Necromancy, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Resurrection, Sad with a Happy Ending, Stanley Uris Lives, Violence, Witchcraft, major character death is not permanent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 17:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21431938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: "C'mon, Eds, one step," Richie says, gripping tightly to Eddie's hand. When Eddie came back, he couldn't walk, couldn't talk, couldn't even feed himself. His motor skills were shot and his memories were only slowly bleeding back in, and Richie could tell he was getting frustrated with how trapped he was. He gets it."Fuck," Eddie spits, because it's only been a few days but ofcoursethat was one of the first words he forcibly dragged back into his vocabulary."Fuck," Richie agrees. "I'm letting go. One step."
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 28
Kudos: 357





	made me forget myself

**Author's Note:**

> the promised **a n g s t** has arrived! read the tags for warnings, i beg of you!!
> 
> Title taken from ["Perfect Day"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wxI4KK9ZYo) by Lou Reed.

** _2016_ **

Richie is not cut out to be a teacher.

His brain works faster than other people's brains; he realized that at a _ very _young age, and was able to adapt from there. He's smart, and concepts come to him with incredible ease, which made him a little hard to understand, as a kid. So, he cracked jokes, and it worked, and here he is today, a semi-successful comedian trying to teach his childhood best friend how to do literally everything being alive requires.

"C'mon, Eds, one step," Richie says, gripping tightly to Eddie's hand. When Eddie came back, he couldn't walk, couldn't talk, couldn't even feed himself. His motor skills were shot and his memories were only slowly bleeding back in, and Richie could tell he was getting frustrated with how trapped he was. He gets it.

"Fuck," Eddie spits, because it's only been a few days but of _ course _ that was one of the first words he forcibly dragged back into his vocabulary.

"Fuck," Richie agrees. "I'm letting go. One step."

"No," Eddie says urgently, clutching Richie's hand tighter.

"Yes," Richie says. "Just one step. I'm right next to you, I'll catch if you fall, okay? Always."

Eddie looks to him, all big warm eyes and flushed cheeks and furrowed brow. "I'll… It's… Ugh. _ Fall." _

"You won't fall," Richie assures him. "You won't do _ anything _if you don't try. What, you actually like being trapped here with me, zombie man? Or do you wanna run away?"

Eddie squeezes his hand. Even though it was obviously a joke, Eddie answers, "Stay," and Richie's heart clenches. He loves Eddie so much, more than he did when they were kids, more every day, and it scrapes at his insides to keep it to himself.

"I'm right here," Richie says.

_ "No," _ Eddie asserts. Richie squeezes his hand. "I want… _ I _want it."

Richie grins at him, feels his face flush hot and pretend that it doesn't. "You can stay as long as you want, Eduardo. Mi casa es su casa."

"Shut up," Eddie mutters, because that was also on the list of the first words he needed to be retaught. They're too important to daily life with Richie not to have. "Let go."

"You're sure?" Richie asks, like he's holding the back of Eddie's bicycle at age six, first time without training wheels, instead of holding his hand at age thirty-eight, first time walking again without assistance since his resurrection. Some experiences are more universal than others.

Eddie nods, "Yes," and releases Richie's hand himself. Richie pulls back, but keeps hovering, hands held halfway through the air to catch Eddie if he even looks like he might start to slump or fall. Miraculously, Eddie keeps his balance, takes one step, then another. Richie watches muscle memory slide into place, even as the muscles themselves need to build themselves back up after so long without use, and Eddie manages to cross the room before he reaches out a shaking hand to Richie. Richie catches him, half-drags him back to the sofa, and Eddie laughs breathlessly.

"Easy," he says. He motions to the room at large, and Richie pulls him in for a hug before releasing him. He almost kisses him on top of his head, _ almost, _before he remembers that's not allowed. "It's easy."

"Your learning curve is a Nascar track," Richie tells him. "You're picking up shit so fast, my head's spinning, Eds. Zombie valedictorian of the class."

"Shut up," Eddie says again. Those two words have seen a lot of mileage the last few days. Richie wants to kiss Eddie every time he speaks but, again, he's not _ allowed. _"Stan?"

Stan. Stan hovers in the back of Richie's mind at all times. He's never not some humming low-level presence, poking at Richie's brain stem, whispering, _ Remember me? Remember your best friend, Stan? Remember how I slit— _

And Richie stops, focuses on the task at hand, which is Eddie making frustrated sounds as he tries to find the words he wants. Honestly, it's just like Bill when they were really little, and so Richie gets an idea.

"He thrusts his fists against the post," Richie says, "and still insists he sees the ghosts." He glances down at Eddie. "Remember?"

"I remember," Eddie answers quietly. Full sentences are always exciting for them.

"Bill never did the full thing," Richie tells him. "I read the book it was from, after the first time he said it. _ Donovan's Brain. _It goes, 'Amidst the mists and coldest frosts he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.'"

Eddie frowns, his brow furrowing again, all those lines on his face pulling. Richie's been memorizing them, trying to remember each and every inch of Eddie as he is now, slowly building up from the foundation of Eddie as he was the last time they saw each other before leaving Derry as teenagers.

"Amidst," Richie starts.

"Amidst," Eddie echoes, and they go through it word by word, even syllable by syllable when needed. Richie pushes Stan out of his mind again, because he's afraid, and it's easier, and he'll come back to it later in the dead of night before either he or Eddie (or both of them) wake up with screaming nightmares.

"Amidst the mists and coldest frosts he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts," Richie says, as it creeps closer to midnight. Eddie's yawning, which makes sense since it's not only late but his body is actively trying to reboot itself, which is probably exhausting work.

"Amidst the mists and coldest frosts he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts," Eddie murmurs for the millionth time in an hour. He stretches, then leans into Richie's side. "Thanks."

"Anything for you, Eddie Spaghetti," Richie says, and Eddie groans.

"Stan," Eddie repeats. Richie looks out the darkened front window, but it's so late that there's no light outside, and he can only see his living room reflected back at them. He and Eddie are sitting awfully close, and seeing them like that — even in the reflection, even when he _ knows _ he can't have this, alright, he _ knows _ that — warms him up from the inside out.

He remembers curling up with Stan on the couch in Stan's living room, too, countless times. He remembers sleepovers and late-night confessions and trying to learn how to kiss, all with Stan. Stan, who he met before he had a functioning memory, and so he barely even remembers meeting him, or Eddie, or Bill. Stan, who was so sweet, so gentle and so funny and so quick-witted, Richie was drawn to him like a magnet. Stan, Stan, Stan.

Stan, who killed himself minutes after Mike called. Stan, who Richie never got to see again.

"Stan," Richie agrees. Eddie tips into Richie's side and yawns. He tries not to read too much into it.

* * *

Richie sees no reason why he shouldn't just do with Stan the same thing that he did with Eddie. Sure, it's about summoning your lover, but Eddie wasn't his lover anymore than Stan was. Richie assumes the chapter must mean _ any _ kind of love, even though it does pointedly use the word _ lover _ (and, a few times, partner). Also, once, it says, _ Ensure the corpse is that of the love of your life, _which is a horrifying sentence in so many ways that it made Richie's brain short-circuit the first time.

He's sure he's reading too much into it. It's not like he can fucking Google it or ask anyone about it. All he knows is he found the book, he feels weirdly electrical at the best of times, he has horrible nightmares, and he was able to bring Eddie back from the dead. There's no reason he can't bring Stan back, too.

He has to reorder the same supplies he had ordered for Eddie, which takes a few more days. Richie writes to the other Losers, looking for any clothes they might have from Stan, and it turns out Mike still has some old shirts and things of theirs. He mails a bunch of stuff up to Richie, a couple of Stan’s shirts included.

Richie also asks if Mike has any of Eddie’s stuff. He doesn’t explain why, doesn’t explain that he resurrected Eddie and he’s still trying to determine if he’s thrown off the entire balance of the universe by doing so, because he doesn’t even know where to begin. Plus, Eddie keeps saying he doesn’t want to see anyone until he’s normal again, so. It doesn’t even end up mattering; Mike sends along _ all _of Eddie’s things that he’s kept without asking questions. It makes Richie’s chest burn.

“I forgot this,” Eddie says, lifting his old varsity track jacket out of the box Mike had shipped out to Richie. He runs his fingertips over the letter on the front, huffs a laugh.

“You were really good,” Richie tells him.

“I can’t walk.”

“You _ can _walk,” Richie reminds him. “It just takes time.”

Eddie’s fists clench around the material of the jacket. It’s all too sad, too red-faced and quiet, and Richie reaches out to put his hand over one of Eddie’s. Those big dark eyes turned on him are a lot, but he takes it when Eddie looks up at him, confused.

“Gotta crawl before you can walk,” Richie says.

“And walk before I run,” Eddie says back, the corner of his mouth twitching up a little bit. They look at each other for a long moment before Richie returns his attention to the box’s innards.

“You were great at running,” Richie tells him. He’d say it even if Eddie hadn’t been, but he _ had, _ he’d been the fastest kid in their class and nobody knew for years, because his mother had never let him take gym class. As soon as he’d shed his mother off his back and started doing what _ he _wanted to do, Eddie had been able to run like the wind, sprinting around the track behind their high school over and over while Richie watched from the bleachers. Every single time. He’d sooner watch Eddie run in circles than be at home.

“Maybe I’ll take it up again,” Eddie says. After a beat, he looks to Richie again and grins.

“That was a long one,” Richie agrees. “You’re almost there, Eds, I swear, you don’t think you are but you’re making great progress. I’m proud of you.”

Eddie’s face goes red; he glances back down at the jacket in his hands. After a beat of hesitation, he hands it over to Richie. “Do you want it?”

“Do I want your letterman jacket?” Richie asks. He’d thought about that a fucking _ lot _in high school, about Eddie’s letterman jacket and about the girls who wore their boyfriends’ letters and how badly he wished that could be him. It all makes his heart twist like he’s seventeen again, and so he chokes out, “Eds, that won’t fit, I’m three times your size.”

Eddie smacks at his shoulder, then shoves the jacket into Richie’s hands. “Try it.”

Richie hesitates, then does. He stands up and slides the sleeves over his long arms. He’s right; Eddie had already reached his full size when he got this jacket, and it hadn’t even fit when they were younger, when Richie was cold and Eddie would sling it over his shoulders. It certainly doesn’t fit now, now that Richie’s completely filled out into broad shoulders and over six feet of height. He slips it back down his arms when it won’t go all the way on and tosses it back.

“Keep it,” Eddie says.

“It doesn’t even fit—”

“Keep it,” Eddie repeats. He holds the jacket out, and Richie takes it hesitantly. The two of them lock eyes for a long moment before Eddie looks back down into the box. Richie clutches the jacket, still watching Eddie. The jacket smells faintly like old books and Mike’s place, but also the cologne Eddie wore in high school and the distant scent of their high school itself. Richie wants to bury his face in it; he holds back.

“Here we go,” Eddie says, snapping Richie out of it. He lifts a worn button-up shirt up out of the box. “This is Stan’s.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Richie holds his hand out, and Eddie passes the shirt over. Like the jacket, it smells like Mike, but still has the faint undertones of Stan, of his deodorant and his cologne and his Stan-smell, that made him _ him. _ It makes Richie miss him so badly he _ aches. _

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie murmurs, lifting a ratty binder out of the box. He laughs. “I— _ Fuck.” _

“What?” Richie asks. Eddie hands the thing to him, then scoots around the box to sit next to Richie, right there on his living room floor. He leans into Richie’s side, opening the binder cover; Richie wants so badly to kiss him, but he refrains. He wonders if he’s straining his muscles from holding back from touching Eddie literally every second of the day. With any luck, he’ll die young because of it.

“I made this senior year,” Eddie says. “Do you remember?”

It takes a minute, where Eddie opens the binder and starts reading the messages the Losers had scrawled on the inside cover. When Richie remembers, though, Eddie turns the first page and Richie says, “It’s a photo album.”

“Bingo.” Eddie turns the album to face them both, and the very first picture is all seven of them. They’re taking it in a big storefront mirror, all mugging for the camera as Ben takes the picture with his gigantic camera. Richie’s got his long, gangling arms thrown around Eddie’s shoulders on one side and Stan’s on the other, dragging them both in so their heads are pressed together. Eddie’s mid-shouting at them, face scrunched up as he yells, and Richie’s laughing hard. Stan’s just smiling, making eye contact directly with the camera lens. It feels like he’s looking up at Richie across decades, through the veil or whatever.

The two of them look down at the picture. After a long moment, Richie’s breath catches, and he lets himself start to cry. Eddie does, too; he turns his face away to do it, but his shoulders are shaking. Richie sets the album on the ground. After a moment of hesitation, staring directly at Stan’s seventeen-year-old face, he closes the cover over the picture and slides the album away. His half-laugh catches on a sob.

“Fuck,” Richie says. “I miss him so fucking much, Eds.”

“I know.” Eddie doesn’t turn, so Richie turns him, puts a hand on his face and lifts his chin so they can look at each other. His cheeks are wet, so Richie reels him in, hugs him hard with his head tucked under Richie’s chin. Eddie’s arms wrap right around him in return. He buries his face in Richie’s shoulder and sniffles, and it’s such a visceral reminder of who they once were and who they are and who they are _ becoming, _Richie shivers.

“Tonight,” Eddie says, when Richie’s calmed down enough that he’s not hiccuping with sobs anymore. Richie nods, and Eddie reaches out, flips the album open again and shuffles through the pages until he finds one of the three of them. They’re all folded up on rocks next to the stream, bent over some book. Eddie and Richie are both gesturing animatedly, eyes locked. Stan’s looking right at Richie, expression so fond that Richie starts crying harder again. Eddie reaches out and takes his hand.

“Okay,” Richie says through his tears. “Fucking— Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie murmurs. He runs his fingertips over the edge of the picture. Richie reaches out and puts his hand over Stan’s face, just to touch him again.

“Tonight is good,” Richie says. He rubs Eddie’s back, then chances pressing his face into the top of his head. Eddie doesn’t move away; actually, his grip tightens on Richie’s waist a little bit. “We have to do it here.”

“I can go outside, Richie,” Eddie insists, which is an argument they’ve been having more and more. The thing is, though, Eddie hadn’t seen what Richie had seen. He hadn’t seen Eddie die, and he hadn’t seen his corpse in that river, and he hadn’t had to drag Eddie back into the world of the living with his teeth and nails. He didn’t understand how terrifying and horrible the world is, he didn’t get that the world was dangerous for someone like him, too dangerous right now, not while he can’t defend himself properly.

“We’ll do it in the bathroom,” Richie says. “We’ll use the bathtub.”

Eddie doesn’t respond to that, except to turn his face a little deeper into Richie’s chest. Richie keeps rubbing up and down his back absently; without thinking, he kisses the top of Eddie’s head, then freezes. Eddie doesn’t say anything to that, either. After a long moment, Richie separates them.

“Time to get in a magical mood,” Richie says.

“Do _ not _burn opium in the house,” Eddie insists.

“There’s the Eddie I’ve missed so much,” Richie tells him, and his tone is teasing, but it’s true. Every time Eddie snaps at him, it’s like he’s settling back into himself. Richie is so fucking in love with him that it follows him around like a shadow. “Go make some black bread toast, I’m gonna get my collection of drugs from the Middle Ages ready to go.”

* * *

It’s not quite the same as when Richie brought Eddie back. For one, he’d been about ninety-percent certain that the ritual wasn’t going to work, when he’d done it with Eddie. He’d been by himself, outside, deep in Derry on the Kissing Bridge, still mourning Eddie so viciously that he would’ve done absolutely anything, up to and including flinging himself off the Kissing Bridge, if it meant Eddie could have even one more minute.

This time, Richie and Eddie are sitting on the bathroom floor, on the mat next to the bathtub, which Richie’s filled with hot water. He’s got his little bowl again, and already dumped in the snakeskin, the hyena flesh, and the rabid dog foam. Eddie had gagged every time while Richie laughed.

“Is this place significant?” Eddie asks.

“Four syllables,” Richie comments, “good job. Yeah, this is my house, man.” He glances at the photo album they’d brought down with them, at Stan’s eyes looking through the years at him. “Plus, we’re not really here.”

“We are, but okay, freak,” Eddie replies. Richie shoves the black bread he hadn’t eaten into the bowl, then the crisped hemlock, mandrake, and opium. He recites the incantations, now burnt into his memory. He’s not clumsy with it, not anymore.

“I need the knife,” Richie says, and Eddie hands it over. Richie slices off a lock of his own hair and drops it into the bowl.

“Do I need to do that?” Eddie asks.

“No,” Richie murmurs, “just the caster, just me.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, voice nearly dropped to a whisper. The bathroom lights are all off, and Eddie scattered a bunch of Yankee Candles around the floor and lit them all. The light-shadows of the flame flicker across Richie’s palm, winking in the metal of the knife as he opens his hand up again. The scar that had slowly healed in his palm from Eddie’s ritual splits right back open, and Richie barely flinches as he turns his hand over and lets his blood drip down into the bowl. Eddie watches the whole thing with those wide, worried eyes of his.

“Give me your hand,” Eddie tells him. Richie does, stirring the contents of the bowl with his other hand. He can feel Eddie sterilizing his hand, then the careful pulling and painful tugging of him stitching the wound closed. Richie takes the time he can’t move to sing the songs and recite the incantations, carefully not looking at Eddie’s face because it’s sort of fucking embarrassing. He dumps grape juice into the bowl, then the sweet Romanian oil he still has half a bottle of. He keeps stirring.

“Ow, fuck,” he hisses, cutting off when Eddie finishes the stitches and tugs the whole thing fully closed. Eddie jerks his hand closer.

“Hold still,” he murmurs. He tears bandage packets open with his teeth, holding Richie’s fingers tight with one hand, unwilling to let go. Richie goes back to his incantations, partially because he has to and partially so he won’t kiss Eddie. Eddie butterflies the wound together, too, then smoothes a large bandage over the top of it. He takes the time to then wrap the entire hand in gauze.

“That’s overkill,” Richie says. Eddie frowns, concentrated on tightly wrapping his hand and wrist correctly. He threads the gauze through Richie’s fingers one at a time, and Richie’s sparking with energy. The ritual and Eddie’s heat and the blood and the smoke, all of it, the steam of the hot water making him sweat.

“I’m not letting you get infected,” Eddie tells him. He finally finishes, pins the gauze in place and releases him. “Okay, go ahead.”

Richie shifts Stan’s shirt on his shoulders. Luckily, eighteen-year-old Stan had been larger than Eddie had been, and Richie could actually get the shirt on, even if it didn’t fit comfortably.

“I disturb you, Stanley Uris,” Richie says, striking a match against the side of the matchbox and tossing the flame into the bowl. “Come home, Stan, buddy. Eds and I are right here waiting for you.”

The bathtub glows, and the candlelights all flicker, the flames shoving sideways like a great wind suddenly blew through them. In the next beat of Richie’s heart, the lights are all blown out, leaving them in the dull golden glow of the water. The both of them lean up and over the bathtub, Richie reaching in with his dirty, uninjured hand. It feels like he’s reaching through Jell-O, and he groans.

“Fuck, this is gross,” he mutters. Eddie keeps staring nervously down into the bathtub before he sticks his hand in, too. “Eds—”

“He might need help,” Eddie snaps. Richie ignores the fact that nobody but the caster is supposed to touch anything, because it’s Eddie. He brought him back, too. It can’t matter all that much.

Suddenly, there’s a soft sigh that isn’t from either of them, Richie takes the bowl and dumps it right into the bathtub. Light shoots out, fills the room and bathes it in yellow-gold, then orange, then red. The red darkens, deepens, spreading over them like dripping syrups from the wall sconces. Richie shudders.

“Is this what happened with me?” Eddie asks, shaking. He looks terrified. Richie grabs his free hand with his gauze-wrapped fingers.

“No,” Richie tells him honestly. “No, it was—”

Suddenly, Stan’s shooting up out of the bathtub, gasping for air. Eddie shrieks, launching himself backwards, and Richie just jumps before he realizes what’s going on. He releases Eddie and climbs right into the bathtub, fucking socks and jeans and all, and just grabs Stan. Stan’s oozing blood, but only oozing, and he doesn’t move when Richie hugs him.

“You’re going to be okay,” Richie tells him. “Eddie, fucking— Help me, help me lift him out—”

Eddie scrambles to his feet and helps Richie get Stan’s legs over the edge of the bathtub. They lower him to the floor together, and he stares up at them, unblinking, unmoved. Eddie had been frantic, choking and screaming and flailing at Richie. He’d even tried to talk. Stan just… stares.

“Hey, Stan, you’re okay,” Richie says. He lifts Stan’s arms, looking for where the blood’s coming from; turns out, it’s his wrists. Eddie quickly flushes the cuts out with clean water and starts wrapping them up while Richie grabs a towel and throws it over Stan’s shoulders. His heart is _ pounding, _ he fucking did it, he _ did it, _he saved Eddie and he saved Stan.

Somehow, though, it doesn’t feel right. With Eddie, there had been a warming sensation, like a honeyed rightness, that the world was being set back on its axis. With Stan, it’s a creeping chill, settling deep in Richie’s bones. He’s cold all over, suddenly, clammy and dizzy.

“Holy shit,” Richie says, dropping his head into his hands. There are warm fingers pushing his hair back and lifting his face up to check his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Eddie demands. “Are you sick? Are you hurt—”

“I’m just a little dizzy,” Richie tells him. He rubs at his face, then leans into Stan, drying him off as best he can.

“Don’t,” Eddie says, “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I can dry him o—” Richie starts to say, then gets distracted by Stan’s throat. He frowns.

“What?” Eddie asks nervously. Stan doesn’t move, just lifts his head to stare at Richie. The two of them look at each other for a long, long time. The longer it goes, the faster Richie’s heart beats, the tighter his throat gets, the more his hands shake.

“Stan?” Richie reaches out, presses his trembling fingers to Stan’s throat. Nothing. He pushes his palm flat against Stan’s bare chest. Stan doesn’t look away from his eyes. “He’s— His heart isn’t beating.”

“His— _ What?” _ Eddie demands. “His heart isn’t— _ My _ heart is beating—”

“I know,” Richie says breathlessly. He lifts his hand up to hold against Stan’s mouth, flat under his nose. No breath. No air. Nothing. He doesn’t even seem to be blinking. Just staring. After a little longer, Stan smiles. It makes Richie’s blood curdle.

“Is he alive?” Eddie asks. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” Richie mumbles. He grabs _ Necromancy _ off the tile floor and flips through it with his bloodied, disgusting hands. He’s still dripping water everywhere, curled up on the floor like he is, but Eddie hasn’t started scolding him for it yet, so he figures they’re _ really _fucked. He rips through the pages.

“I’m calling his wife,” Eddie says.

“Eds—”

“She doesn’t even know who I am,” Eddie says, “it’s fine. I’ll just— I don’t know, ask some questions, I guess. Find out stuff about Stan and we can see if any of it snaps him back.”

“Okay,” Richie agrees. Eddie gets to his feet and leaves the bathroom to get his phone. Richie can hear him pacing in the hallway, talking to Patricia Uris on the phone. Richie’s only seen her once, from a distance, when he’d gone to Stan’s funeral with the other Losers and hung back so they wouldn’t intrude.

“Stan,” Richie tries again. Stan doesn’t move, for a moment; then, he lifts his head and looks at him again. Richie wishes he hadn’t said anything, because Stan’s vacant expression is somehow much worse than not looking at him at all. He’s making Richie’s skin crawl. “Are you… Stan, you’re okay. It’s me, you remember me? Richie Tozier?”

Stan doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move. After a moment, Richie reaches out and cups Stan’s face in his. Stan mimics the movement, lifts his hand to cup Richie’s face in return, and Richie sobs.

“Stan, I missed you,” Richie says, yanking him in, ignoring the cold chill of his skin as he sobs into Stan’s wet hair. He doesn’t hug him back, and Richie’s got a chill deep in his bone marrow, but he can’t fucking make it matter when Stan’s here with him.

“She could barely talk to me,” Eddie spits, chucking his phone down at the bathmat. He’s a ball of fury, red-faced and afraid and endlessly moving.

“Help me get him up,” Richie says. “We’ll help him shower and— I don’t know. Go to sleep, I guess?”

“Go to _ sleep?” _ Eddie repeats. “I just fucking called Patricia Uris at _ one in the morning _ to hear her talk about how— how she needs to keep living and move on from Stan—”

“Motherfucker,” Richie interrupts, angry, heat tightening inside his cold veins. He’s even angrier because he wishes he could be like that, could be _ normal, _ could move on from losing them, but he fucking _ can’t. _ He just fucking _ can’t. _

“—and _ look at him, _Richie,” Eddie continues, like Richie hadn’t even spoken. “He’s— Rich, I know, it’s— It’s not a perfect—” Eddie exhales, scrubbing at his face. He leaves streaks of blood across his face, blood that’s not his, Stan and Richie’s blood, spread over his cheeks and forehead in slashes like open veins.

“I don’t know,” Richie says. It doesn’t even really make sense as something to say, but it makes Eddie stop and look at him anyways. After a moment, he falls to his knees in front of Richie. In the next second, he’s wrapping them both up in his arms and burying his face in Stan’s shoulder.

“It’ll be okay,” Eddie murmurs.

“Okay,” Richie replies. Eddie holds them there another second before he gets up and offers Richie a hand.

* * *

Between the two of them, they manage to stitch Stan up, get all three of them showered and dressed, and he’s sitting on the bed in Richie’s guest room across the hall by two forty-five in the morning.

“I’m just gonna let you sleep,” Richie says, making sure there’s no sneaky hidden alarms on the clock Eddie’s got set up on the bedside table. Eddie keeps making noises about sleeping on the sofa, but Richie knows he’ll end up in bed with him. They tend to gravitate towards one each other at night. Usually, it’s because one or both of them has nightmares they wake up screaming and crying from, and they just crawl under the other’s sheets without a word. Richie’s been happier since Eddie came back than he’s been since he first left Derry, necromancy necessity notwithstanding.

Eddie pushes Stan down onto the mattress. He seems— Not confused, but maybe, unsure? Richie’s not entirely certain if Stan’s feeling anything just yet, but he might just be disoriented. The creeping feeling comes back into his bones, and he shoves it down. Stan’s face is reassurance enough.

“Lay down,” Richie says. Stan does. Eddie pulls the covers up over him while Richie turns on the bedside lamp.

“If you need us, we’re across the hall,” Eddie tells Stan, and Richie guesses he’s already decided to just stay in bed with him. It makes him itch. His skin is _ crawling. _

“Okay, bedtime,” Richie says, clapping his hands together. “See you in the morning, Stan the Man. Good to have you back.” After a beat of hesitation, he leans over and hugs Stan tightly. Stan still doesn’t hug him back. “I love you, Stan.”

Stan doesn’t reply. That’s fine; Eddie couldn’t talk, either. He’ll teach him again. It’ll be fine.

Eddie does follow Richie back to his bedroom, right on his heels until they get to the mattress. They curl up next to each other, faces close together in the silent darkness, before Eddie makes a soft sound.

“He’s…” Eddie starts to say, then stops.

“We’ll help,” Richie replies. “We’ll fix it. Maybe he’s in shock.”

“Maybe,” Eddie allows. They both know that’s not it. Richie feels it with a weirdly deep certainty. After a bit longer of this darkness, of them both adjusting until Richie can easily see the whites of Eddie’s eyes in the shadows. Eddie reaches out and takes Richie’s glasses off. “Go to sleep, Rich.”

Richie’s too tired to argue. Eddie hugs him one last time before retreating, turning on his side and curling into a ball. Richie stares up at the ceiling in the darkness, then turns towards Eddie so he can watch the inflation and deflation of his lungs through his back. Just to reassure himself that he’s still alive. Just in case.

He falls asleep in fits and starts, barely able to stay in any sort of deep sleep when Stan’s face keeps racing across his eyelids, his haunting lack of pulse a phantom under Richie’s fingertips. He feels when Eddie tosses in his sleep, and his eyes snap open when Eddie’s face presses into his side, his arm thrown across Richie’s waist. Eddie sighs, a small sound in the darkness, and Richie shivers, willing himself to keep still.

There’s a twitch, in the shadows near the door, and Richie’s suddenly on high alert. He can’t see anything, his eyes desperately adjusting. He gingerly lays his hand on Eddie’s shoulder and fumbles for his glasses. Once they’re on, he realizes someone’s in the room, and then Stan’s standing over him.

Neither of them speaks. Stan steps closer, standing right over the bed. His hands are trembling, his face is clammy with sweat. He looks horrible, bloodshot eyes darting over to Eddie, then back to Richie. He stares at him for a long, hard moment, and Richie’s heart _ pounds. _He tries to remember if he still has the knife he used to keep under the mattress.

Eddie makes a sleepy sound again, curling up a little tighter and turning his face into Richie’s throat. Richie shivers, glancing down at Eddie before Stan shifts, his attention twitching to Eddie.

“Stan—” Richie manages, hand shooting up to grab him, but Stan lunges, his eyes locked on Eddie as he lifts a familiar kitchen knife and drives after Eddie’s throat. Richie shoves him backwards, pushing Eddie off the bed as he tackles Stan down to the floor. Stan slashes at him with the kitchen knife.

“What the fuck?” Eddie screams, hauling himself up and over the mattress again. “Oh, fuck, Stan—”

“Help me,” Richie manages. Eddie hesitates only for a moment before he leaps off the bed and drags Stan’s arms backwards. Stan spins around, shoves the knife towards Eddie’s arm gracelessly and opens up a long scratch along his forearm. Richie sees red, grabs Stan by the upper arm and flips him back down onto the ground while Eddie shoves himself away from them, hand covering the scratch on his arm. Blood seeps through his fingers.

He can distantly still hear Eddie shouting, screaming something at him, but Eddie’s blood is on the knife and Stan’s still trying to get away, still trying to hack at them both with the blade. Richie grabs his wrist, but Stan slashes out, catches Richie’s shoulder with the point of the blade, then his chest, his cheek, and Richie yells as he shoves Stan’s hands back against the floor.

“Stan, I’m so sorry,” Richie says desperately, and he can feel tears on his cheeks. Stan’s not Stan, he knows that, he _ knows, _but it’s Stan’s body—

And something’s _ wrong— _

But it’s Stan’s _ eyes— _

He can’t focus, Stan’s looking up at him with those eyes, just staring, fingers twitching around the handle of the knife. He shifts, wriggling under Richie, and Richie shoves him down again. He’s panting for breath, and he can hear Eddie still shooting out a stream of words, but all of Richie’s attention is focused on Stan in this moment.

“Richie,” Stan croaks. It doesn’t sound like Stan at all. He slashes at Richie’s face again, and Richie grabs the blade of the knife with his hand. It cuts into the gauze, then into Eddie’s stitches, and Richie cries out but he yanks the knife away.

_ “Richie,” _Eddie calls out, and Richie lifts his head, but doesn’t look away. “Richie, that’s not Stan—”

“It’s not Stan,” Richie repeats. Stan’s eyes look up at him, but the thing inside them isn’t Stan. It doesn’t make it any easier when Stan’s hands tear at his face and Richie instinctively slashes the blade across Stan’s throat. Stan’s hands drop from Richie, fingers twitching up towards the blood pouring from his neck, and he falls limp against the floor. Richie keeps straddling the body, still holding the knife, chest heaving.

“Richie?” Eddie asks, softly, into the darkness. His warm fingers wrap around Richie’s, slowly prying them off the handle of the knife until it clatters to the hardwood floor. “It’s okay, Richie. That wasn’t Stan.”

“But—” Richie says, voice choking on a sob, and Eddie pulls him in.

“It’s okay,” Eddie tells him, “Richie, it’s okay, it’s not Stan, it’s okay, you’re okay—”

“I fucked up,” Richie says, then starts to just repeat, “No, _ no, _ I fucked up, _ I fucked up, _ Eddie, _ no—” _

“Hey, look at me.” Eddie cups Richie’s face, says, “You did _ not _ fuck up. Richie, this is beyond either of us. There’s a million things that could’ve happened, we have no fucking idea what we’re dealing with. It’s a miracle you were able to save _ me. _ Richie, it’s _ okay.” _

It’s not. It’s not even a little okay, because Stan’s corpse is bleeding out sluggishly on his bedroom floor, and Eddie’s arm is hurt and Richie knows he’s bleeding in a few spots. His hand hurts like hell, and he think he smashed his nose into the floor at some point.

Eddie presses their foreheads together. Richie reaches up, holds Eddie’s face in return. They stand, Richie leaning into Eddie as he drags them back to the bathroom. They clean themselves before returning to Stan’s body in their bedroom, and the work begins.

* * *

Richie’s glad he has a car, because he and Eddie just get in and drive. Eddie doesn’t even comment on the fact that he’s going outside, just helps Richie carry Stan into the backseat while talking endlessly about nothing at all. Richie’s glad he is, because that’s usually his job and he just doesn’t have the strength right now, but the silence is so much worse.

Eddie holds his hand on the drive out of Derry, through Castle Rock, then Bangor, then Jerusalem’s Lot, before they finally get to the tiny town of Ludlow. Richie drives them deep, deep into the woods of Ludlow, until they find a path that leads them into a dark corner of the forests. Maine is the same all over, shadowed woods and salt smells and rich earth, always.

It’s damp, when Richie starts digging. Eddie joins him, the two of them swapping out between the work and keeping watch. Stan doesn’t move. Richie’s not sure if he wants him to or not. He knows he’ll come back, he knows he has to keep trying. Right now, though, with his face cleaned up and his hand freshly bandaged, the memory of Eddie’s screams ringing in his ears, he knows he can’t try again anytime soon.

“That should be good,” Richie says, appraising the hole they’ve dug. Eddie wipes at his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, and Richie offers him a hand up. He climbs up and out. They stand beside the grave for a moment before silently setting about the work of setting Stan down at the bottom of it. They fill in the grave silently with their hands, pushing dirt over Stan’s body. Richie shuts his eyes when he hears the clumps hitting him, starts to cry.

“I’m here,” Eddie says quietly. He picks up the shovel while Richie keeps working with his hands, and it’s not quick or easy work, but they’re done before the sun’s up. Neither of them wants to leave, Richie can tell, sitting cross-legged next to the fresh plot as Eddie messes it up with leaves and sticks to make it less obvious. Not that anyone ever comes out this far in the woods of Ludlow.

The drive home is silent. Richie wants to go back, but he knows they can’t. After a while, Eddie turns on the radio, then takes Richie’s hand again.

“Thank you,” Richie says. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel so he can turn the other over in Eddie’s hold. He squeezes his hand. “Eddie, I…”

“I know,” Eddie tells him. He folds up, brings their joined hands to his face and says, “I know.”

Richie nods, blinking, and tears stream silently down his face. The sun comes up as they drive, and they pull back up outside Richie’s place in Derry just as the first golden light settles across their lawn. They turn the car off, but neither of them move.

“I’ll try again,” Richie says, after a long while. “Not… Not now. Not soon.”

“No,” Eddie replies.

“No?”

“Not soon,” Eddie amends. “I’ll help. We’ll find something. But we— We have to be careful. I can’t lose—” Eddie stops, looks out the windshield at the garage door. “If you’re gone, who’ll save Stan?”

“If I’m gone, who’ll you bother all the time?” Richie asks. Eddie smacks at his arm. It doesn’t fix things, or break the strange hold over them, but it does spur them into action.

They both hover around the kitchen before deciding to just go back to bed, fuck the day, they’ve had a long fucking night. Eddie pulls Richie in once they’re both under the covers again, tugs Richie’s head up under his chin and against the hollow of his throat, and it’s there that the hold breaks. It feels like something above them snaps, and suddenly the air is rushing out of the room and Richie’s sobbing. Eddie’s crying, too, he can feel it, but he’s also rubbing Richie’s back and curling around him, holding him close.

“It’s okay,” Eddie whispers. “It’s going to be okay, Richie.”

Richie doesn’t believe him, can’t believe him. Stan’s dead face is behind his eyelids when he closes them, so he keeps them open, staring at Eddie’s skin inches from his eyes. Eddie keeps stroking his back, his hair, and he clings to Eddie in return. He slots their legs together, and Eddie tugs him in closer, wraps his arms around Richie entirely and tucks his face into his hair. Richie shakes apart under him, still sobbing, nails digging into Eddie’s back.

“I got you,” Eddie murmurs. “I gotcha, Rich. I’m here.”

* * *

**_2019_ **

“Stan the Man!” Richie exclaims. “Get the fuck in here, my man, how the hell are you?”

“I saw you yesterday, dipshit,” Stan laughs. He lets Richie reel him in, and Richie kisses him on the top of his head before dragging him deeper into their apartment.

“Stan’s here!” he calls. Eddie’s already seated on the floor of their living room, Audrey propped up on her upright pillow. She’s reaching out to Eddie with frustration when he gets distracted from their game of peek-a-boo, which Richie’s fairly sure is entering minute fifteen. She’s only just grasped the basics of it and it’s her new favorite activity. Well, that and trying to get herself up into a crawling position, but that gives both Richie and Eddie hives to think about, so they mutually decided to just not think about it.

“What’s this surprise you keep fucking texting me about?” Stan asks. Richie lifts up the photo album he’s got on the floor, scooping up Riley and kissing her forehead when she squeals. He sets her down in his lap. “Ta-da!”

“An old binder?” Stan asks. He takes the photo album from Richie’s hands and flips it open. Richie watches him read the inside cover, sees his face shift as he remembers. Stan laughs, open and happy. “Oh, shit, I remember this, it’s Eddie’s album! You guys still had this?”

“Mike did, and he sent it to me after Eddie—” Richie says, then stops. “Well, I still had it, anyways. There’s a bunch of great old pictures in there, a bunch of you. Look at that!” He points at the picture on the first page, of all of them pressed into the mirror in the window. Stan’s still looking directly into the camera, and Richie has to look away.

He remembers the last time he’d looked at this album, everything that had happened afterwards. He’d thought about it that morning, too, when he’d found the album while he was digging in the closet for a missing rain boot. Once he’d cracked it open, he’d shot off a text to the group chat that he had a surprise, and a few of them said they’d stop by to check it out. Stan’s the first one, and Richie’s glad for the moment with just the three of them.

When Stan turns the page, looking down at the picture of the three of them again, age seventeen, folded up on that rock by the stream, Richie huffs a laugh.

“I missed you really bad,” Richie admits. Stan pulls him in to hug. Riley pats at his face, and Richie sniffles a little bit.

“Oh, you big baby,” Stan comments. “Get over here, come on.”

Richie folds fully into the embrace, Riley trapped indignantly in between them. He hears Audrey squeal, presumably with excitement at Eddie’s game with her, and he rubs at his face, pulling back.

“Anyways, I’m glad you’re here,” Richie says. “We— Well, you know, Eddie and I were talking about it, and we still have to do the naming ceremonies for Audrey and Riles, you know. We wanted— Well, we were thinking—”

“You talk non-stop, and now you can’t get a fucking word out,” Eddie laughs. “You’re such a fuckhead.”

“Shut up,” Richie shoots back, but it’s just the right amount of distraction he needs to focus properly. Eddie smiles at him, like he knows. Richie feels a swell of fondness so strong he has to reach out and squeeze Eddie’s hand for it before he turns his attention back on Stan. “I know it’s more of a, like, honorary thing, but we talked about it and we thought you’d maybe like to be… I don’t know. If you want to be Riley’s _ kvater, _and help with her naming ceremony. We’re going to ask Ben to be Audrey’s.”

Stan looks at them, then down at Riley between them. She grins when they make eye contact, lifts her arms and beams. Stan hoists her up out of Richie’s grasp, kisses over the scar on her round cheek before he pushes their noses together. She laughs, high and happy and free, and Stan pulls her in to hug.

“I’d love to,” Stan says, sounding choked up. “Thank you.”

“Thank _ you,” _Richie insists, pulling him in to hug again, and Stan goes, folding right up against him and laughing a little through his teary throat.

“Congrats, you’re responsible for her if Eds and I both spontaneously combust,” Richie tells him. Stan huffs a wet laugh and pulls back again.

“Guess I’ll just have to kidnap her earlier than I thought,” Stan says. Richie’s gonna make a smart reply, but Stan’s already looking back down at Riley, tucking her hair behind her ear before embracing her again. She wraps her arms around his neck, hugs him right back, and it sends warm waves rolling down Richie’s back. He leans back, plants his hands against the floor so he can tip far enough to smile at Eddie.

“One down,” Richie says. Eddie rolls his eyes, but he kisses Richie upside-down before Audrey shrieks at him again, smacking her hands against his to demand his attention back.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)!


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